


I've Been Wrestling With Angels and I Can Show You the Scars

by elifisher96



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Crying, David Rose Loves Patrick Brewer, David Rose is a Good Person, Depression, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Introspection, M/M, POV Patrick Brewer, Panic Attacks, Patrick Brewer loves David Rose, Pre-Canon, Scars, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28983477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elifisher96/pseuds/elifisher96
Summary: Patrick has conversations with people he loves about his struggles with self-harm.
Relationships: Clint Brewer & Patrick Brewer, Marcy Brewer & Patrick Brewer, Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Patrick Brewer/Rachel
Comments: 12
Kudos: 127





	1. Clint & Marcy

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNING: This work deals very heavily with self-harm and contains discussions of whether or not a character is suicidal. Please keep yourselves safe and feel free to not read this if you think it might be triggering in any way <3 **
> 
> Title from "Jacob's Dream" by Noah Reid.

**Seventeen years old**

Patrick laid back on his bed and closed his eyes. He could feel the knot in his chest tightening, his eyes burning beneath his eyelids. He tried to take deep breaths, _in through your nose, out through your mouth,_ but tears escaped from the corners of his eyes until he could no longer control them. He rolled over onto his right side and felt the pain on his thigh, crying harder as the shame of being in pain at all washed over him. He hugged a pillow to his chest and sobbed, silently.

After a while, the tears slowed and Patrick was able to take a deep breath again. He sat up slowly, wiping underneath his nose with the back of his hand. He stared morosely around his room, trying to work up the courage to call out for his mom. His heartbeat rose to his throat, making it difficult to draw air into his lungs. So he continued to sit there, hands shaking, thinking through what led to this moment.

Patrick tried hard to keep his cuts clean. Okay, he admitted to himself, maybe he picked at them more often than he should. But he would always clean up afterward: put on some antibiotic cream, covered it with a bandage, tried to keep his fingers away. Eventually, it would fade, joining the rest of the scars lining his thighs and hips. Not this one, though. This cut just never seemed to heal, growing redder and more inflamed with each passing day. It got to the point where it hurt to walk, the skin surrounding the wound stretching and pulling uncomfortably. Track and field practice earlier that day had been torture—he faked a muscle pull after doing sprints so that he wouldn’t have to do the 3-mile run, and his coach let him go home early.

On that walk home, leg aching, he decided that it had gone past the point where he could try to heal it by himself. He needed to tell his mom. She was a nurse. She would know what to do.

Patrick hauled himself to his feet, washing his face with cold water to try to reduce the puffiness around his eyes. He stared at himself in the mirror, searching for the person everyone saw him as: the straight-A student, the sports star, the one who would easily be accepted into the best Canadian universities, the one who could go to Harvard if he wanted. But Patrick couldn’t find him. All he saw was a scared boy, standing on the edge of a cliff, one foot dangling precariously in the emptiness spread before him.

He took a breath and stepped into the unknown.

“Mom?” he called, stepping away from the bathroom mirror and calling down the stairs.

“Yes, sweetheart?” Marcy’s voice floated up from the living room.

“Can you come here? I need your help.”

“I’ll be there in a minute, Patty.”

Patrick stepped into his room, closing the door behind him and leaning on it for support. His heart was beating so fast, it felt ready to crash through his ribs and onto the floor. He was gasping, trying to draw breath, but it was as if his lungs had forgotten how to fill with air. Through his panic, he heard the soft thud of his mother’s footsteps as she climbed the stairs. Patrick forced himself away from his bedroom door, sitting on his bed as he heard his mother’s soft knock.

“It’s open,” he said, managing to sound calmer than he felt.

Marcy opened his door and stepped inside, closing it carefully behind her. She looked around curiously as if expecting to see a textbook laid on his desk with a homework problem he couldn’t understand. “What did you need help with, dear?” she asked.

Patrick stared at his mother, chewing his lip and twisting his hands anxiously. He knew he needed to answer her, but the words stuck in his throat, unwilling to come out.

Marcy’s eyes drew together with concern. “Patrick, is everything alright?”

He managed to shake his head _no._

Marcy walked softly to the bed and knelt in front of Patrick. She took his hands to stop him from pulling at his fingers. “You know that you can tell me anything, right, Patrick?”

Patrick searched his mother’s kind face. He knew, rationally, that she would not be angry about this. But at the same time, he couldn’t help but wonder, _what if she’s angry at me? What if she thinks I’m broken?_ He searched her face for a couple more seconds, until finally, _finally,_ he had the courage to stand up and take off his jeans.

He sat back down on his bed in his boxers, and slowly, fingers shaking, fiercely avoiding his mother’s eyes, pulled up the hem until the infected cut and the scars across his thighs were visible.

Marcy was silent for several long seconds. After what felt like an eternity, Patrick turned back toward his mom, seeing the tears in her eyes.

“Please don’t be mad at me,” he whispered, tears slipping down his cheeks once more.

Patrick could feel his mother’s eyes on him, with something like heartbreak behind them. “Oh, my sweet boy, why would I be mad at you?” she said quietly, sitting next to him on the bed and wrapping her arms around him. “I just wish you weren’t in so much pain.”

Patrick collapsed, sobbing into his mother’s shoulder, feeling smaller than he had in years.

* * *

His parents let him stay home from school the next day. After Marcy cleaned and bandaged the infected cut, Patrick and his mom talked for nearly an hour. He tried to explain what he’d felt for the previous two and a half years: the crushing sense of obligation surrounding him, how nothing seemed like it was in his control, the days where he felt like a stranger in his own skin. How hurting himself gave him control, focused him, brought him back to his body. He cried until he ran out of tears, until his nose was rubbed raw because of the number of tissues he used. He asked her if she could tell his dad, unable to banish the image of his dad looking at him with disappointment, disappointed that his only child was so broken that he needed to hurt himself to feel whole again. Marcy said that she would talk to him, said that she would call the school and tell them that _Patrick isn’t feeling very well today,_ that he should rest and take it easy.

Even though he woke up at 6 every morning, at 8:30 Patrick was still slipping in and out of consciousness. He heard the door to his room open and the heavy footfalls of his dad as he crossed the room. Unwilling to face his father, who he still had not seen since dinner the night before, he burrowed further into his comforter. He felt his dad kiss the top of his head, something he couldn’t remember his father doing in quite some time. “You’re so brave, Patrick,” Clint muttered against his hair. “I love you so much.” Patrick felt his dad press his cheek to his hair one more time before crossing the room and closing the door softly behind him.

* * *

Patrick finally woke fully at 9:45, heart racing from a nightmare he could not remember. He walked downstairs in his PJs, still feeling emotionally wrung out from the previous night. As he rounded the corner into the kitchen, he was surprised to see his mother standing at the counter, clutching a mug of tea and staring absently out the window.

“Mom?” Patrick said.

Marcy started and turned away from the window. “Patrick! You’re up! If you weren’t up soon I would’ve gone to make sure you got out of bed,” she said.

“Don’t you have work?” he asked, sliding into a chair at the kitchen table.

“I called in, said I was taking the day off, that you were sick...”

Patrick huffed out a breath. “I’m seventeen years old, Mom. And I’m not actually sick.”

“I know, sweetheart, but your father and I agreed that you shouldn’t be alone right now,” she said.

He leaned his forehead against his hands. _Of course,_ he thought bitterly. _Can’t leave me alone because I’m a danger to myself._ “I told you I’m not suicidal,” he said. He felt a lump rise to his throat. _There’s nothing to cry about,_ he thought. He closed his eyes against the forming tears. _Stop crying._

Patrick heard his mother put her mug down and felt her running a hand across his shoulders a moment later. She rested her cheek against the top of his head. “I know,” she said. “But we also didn’t want to _feel_ alone.” And with that, she kissed his curls, squeezed his shoulder, and moved off toward the stove to make breakfast. 

* * *

Patrick spent most of the day in bed, reading and playing video games on the tiny TV that used to be in his parents’ room. After lunch, Marcy came into his room to change the gauze pad on his leg and to go through his desk drawers, looking for any remaining objects he could conceivably use to hurt himself (he’d handed over his box of tools the night before when she asked for them). _“Anything else?”_ she said quietly. He looked at the objects arranged in her palms. _“I don’t think so,”_ he said, gloomily turning back to his racing game. He later heard her rummaging through the bathroom cabinets.

At 5:15, he heard the phone ringing downstairs. He knew his mother was watching TV right next to the phone, so he made no effort to go pick it up. A minute later, he heard her climbing the stairs, followed by a soft knock on the door.

“It’s Rachel,” she called.

Patrick sighed and folded down the corner on his book page. “Okay,” he said, pulling the door open and taking the phone from his mother’s outstretched hand. He returned to his bed.

“Hey Rach,” he said into the receiver.

“Patrick! You weren’t at school today,” Rachel said.

“Yea, I wasn’t feeling well.”

“That’s what your mom said,” she said. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

Patrick let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He hadn’t even noticed that he was scared his mom would say something to Rachel until she asked what was wrong. He took a deep breath. “Yea, Rach, I’m fine. Just my stomach. Food poisoning, or something.”

“I told you not to have fish sticks for lunch,” she teased. “I had Tommy write down all of your homework assignments.”

“Thanks,” he said. He had no intention of doing any of his homework, but he let Rachel list out his assignments nevertheless. 

They talked for a few minutes, Rachel telling him all about what she did during school. Patrick made sure to hum every so often to make it seem like he was engaged, but he wasn’t really listening. He’d done practically nothing all day, but having a conversation with Rachel was sapping him of the little energy he had.

Eventually, Rachel fell silent for a few seconds. “Thanks for calling, Rach,” Patrick said. “I’m kinda tired so I want to try to squeeze in a nap before dinner.” The lie rolled easily off his tongue. Yes, he was tired, but he knew he would never be able to fall asleep, considering how anxious he was about the inevitable talk with his dad.

“Of course, Patty,” she said. “If you wake up still feeling crappy tomorrow, call me before school. I’ll come over after last period.” 

“Thanks,” he said. “I will.”

“Bye!”

“Bye.”

Patrick hung up the phone. He took a couple of deep breaths before swinging his feel onto the floor and standing up. He went downstairs, passing through the kitchen on the way to the living room. He peeked into the oven, where chicken legs and vegetables were baking in a sauce. As he walked into the living room, his mom was finishing a conversation on her cellphone. He placed the phone back in its cradle and was going to head right back upstairs when Marcy spoke. 

“That was Dad,” she said, flipping down the cover of her phone. “Just calling to let me know that he’s leaving the office.”

Patrick stopped in his tracks. The anxiety about the inevitable conversation bubbled up again. He couldn’t pinpoint _why_ he was so anxious about talking to his dad, especially considering what he had told Patrick that morning, but the thought of repeating what he’d told his mother filled him with dread. 

Marcy must have seen the apprehension in his eyes because she said, “You know that your father and I love you more than anything, right? And Patrick, we are so proud of you. So proud of the young man you’ve grown up to be, so proud that you were able to ask for help. Asking for help, admitting that you’re suffering, that takes courage. You are so, _so_ brave, my sweet, sweet boy.”

There was that word again, _brave._ He didn’t feel brave. He felt ashamed—ashamed that he was unable to process his emotions in a healthy way, ashamed that he kept hurting himself even though he knew it wasn’t healthy, ashamed that it took him so long to admit to himself that he needed help, ashamed of why he had to tell his parents, ashamed at how long he had been hurting himself, ashamed that he started hurting himself to begin with. But he couldn’t bring himself to say any of that, so he nodded mutely, turned away from his mother, and went back to his room. 

Patrick laid back down on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t know how long he lay there, looking at nothing, but he heard the front door open and his father shout, “I’m home!” Patrick heard his mom say something in response and the sound of heavy footfalls as his father went into the kitchen. Knowing they were likely going to talk about him, and wanting to know what they were saying, Patrick tiptoed across his floor, slowly opened his bedroom door, and stood at the head of the stairs, listening. 

“How’s he doing?” he heard his dad ask.

“He’s doing okay,” his mom said. “He’s been in his room pretty much all day.”

“Has he…?” 

“No, or at least, I don’t think so. I took all the sharp objects out of his room and from the bathroom cabinets.”

Clint must have nodded in response because the next person to speak was Marcy again. 

“How could we not notice that something was wrong for two and a half years?”

“I don’t know Marce.” 

Silence.

Finally, he heard his dad say, “What are you making for dinner? It smells delicious.” And with that, Patrick crept slowly back to his room.

He left the door ajar to make it easier for him to hear if his parents started talking about him again, or to hear if one of them came up the stairs. He laid down, bringing his knees toward his chest and wincing at the pain in his thigh. _How could we not notice something was wrong for two and a half years?_ played on repeat in his head. But the answer was obvious to Patrick: they didn’t notice because he hid it well. He hid it very well. He never cut anywhere that wouldn’t be covered by a pair of boxers. He wrapped bloody tissues in clean ones so his mother wouldn’t notice them in the trash. He got very good at pretending everything was okay, outwardly being cheerful and friendly when internally he felt numb. He always acted the way everyone expected him to. Worked for the life everyone expected him to live. No one knew that anything was wrong because he never made it seem like anything was wrong.

He was so lost in thought that he didn’t register the noise of his dad going upstairs until he heard a soft knock on his bedroom door. “Hey, champ,” Clint said, sticking his head into the room. 

Patrick looked over his shoulder at his dad. “Hey,” he said, curling back up in his fetal position. 

“How are you doing?” Clint said, stepping into the room fully and closing the door behind him. 

Patrick shrugged his shoulder. He could feel the tears threatening to spill again, so he didn’t trust his voice not to quiver when he spoke. 

He heard his dad walk across the room and felt the bed dip as Clint sat down near Patrick’s feet. He placed a hand, somewhat awkwardly, on Patrick’s ankle and rubbed back and forth. They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, the only sounds being their breathing and the noise of Clint’s hand rubbing over Patrick’s sock. 

Finally, his dad spoke.

“I know us Brewer men aren’t necessarily known for talking about our feelings. And sometimes we keep our emotions bottled up for the benefit of others. But I hope you know that you can talk to me, or your mother, or both of us, whenever you’re upset, or sad, or feel like you’re alone. Our job as your parents is to take care of you, Patrick. We promise to take care of you. On your best days and your worst days. Always.” 

While his dad was talking, the tears that were gathering in the corners of his eyes finally spilled over. Patrick could feel the tears running over the bridge of his nose and down his temple into his ear. He pulled his knees closer to his chest, curling tighter in on himself as he cried. He felt his dad stand up and sit back down a second later, holding out the tissue box from his desk. He wiped at his eyes and blew his nose until the tears mostly stopped. Slowly he sat up and looked his father in his eyes for the first time.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick said, voice thick. 

“For what?”

“For that,” he said, gesturing to the graveyard of tissues now littering his bed. 

“Nothing we won’t be able to clean up,” Clint said. 

“And I’m sorry,” Patrick said, closing his eyes. “For not...for being...that I’m—”

“Hey, Patrick,” Clint said, putting a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. He opened his eyes and looked into his dad’s, which were filled with love and concern. “There is absolutely nothing to apologize for. The past couple of days have been tough for you.” He dropped his hand from his shoulder to his knee. “You’ve been so brave, Patrick. You’ve been struggling alone for such a long time, and you are strong, but you’re not alone. You don’t have to be strong anymore.” 

Clint leaned over and kissed Patrick on the temple and put an arm across his shoulders. Silently, Patrick let his dad gather him up in his arms and pull him into his chest, rocking back and forth slightly, just like he used to do when Patrick got hurt as a child. Patrick closed his eyes and breathed deeply, feeling safe and comfortable in the circle of his dad’s embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really heavy, ngl. I mostly wrote this as a way to work through some of my experiences with telling my parents about my struggles with self-harm in hs and how I felt after starting again a couple years after that. don't worry though, it's been at least 4 yrs since I last did it, and I have no intention of doing it again. 
> 
> if you are struggling with your mental health, don't be afraid to reach out to people who care. asking for help can be scary but you can do it <3
> 
> I'm on [ tumblr](https://elifisher96.tumblr.com/)


	2. David

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING: This work deals very heavily with self-harm and contains discussions of whether or not a character is suicidal. This chapter includes scenes where a character actively harms themself. Please keep yourselves safe and feel free to not read this if you think it might be triggering in any way <3 **

**14 Years Later**

Approximately two minutes after Stevie left swinging her bag of strawberries, realization slammed into Patrick like a truck: David was going to see him naked that night. And David didn’t know.

Patrick stood at the counter, fiddling with the inventory spreadsheet on his laptop while he thought. The opportunity to spend time truly alone at Stevie’s was too good to pass up. He and David had been together for a little over two weeks, but Patrick was aching to take it to the next level. They’d spent nearly every night since David’s birthday driving to empty parking lots outside of town and making out in the backseat. Patrick knew he’d said that he wanted to take things slow, but now that he’d held David in his arms and heard the soft moans he let out when Patrick kissed along his neck, Patrick wanted nothing more than to lie together, nothing preventing skin-to-skin contact.

On the other hand, what if this is what made David feel like Patrick wasn’t worth his time? That someone as unique and beautiful as David Rose chose someone as plain as Patrick still confounded him. Not only was he plain, but he was also fundamentally broken as well. Why would David choose to help hold the pieces together? Why would David stick with him when he could have anyone he wanted? 

Patrick glanced at the time on his laptop. 3:05. Almost two hours until close. He watched David flit around the store, turning bottles so all the labels faced forward and stacking blankets so that two of each color were lined up on the shelf. Even though he knew it was far, _far_ too early, Patrick was pretty sure he loved David. And he owed it to the person he loved to give him a heads up.

The rest of the day passed slowly, customers coming in every so often. Finally, it was 5, and David was locking the door and turning the sign to read “closed.” They each set about doing their closing tasks, Patrick closing out the POS system and David restocking products. They worked in comfortable silence, shooting each other shy, excited glances across the room.

As Patrick swept the floor, he felt his heart rate increase, just like it always did when he was on the precipice of telling someone something important: like when he told his mother that first time, or like when he told Rachel that he was done and that he was leaving for good, or like it did when he went to tell David he wanted to invest in his business. He took a couple of silent deep breaths. 

“Hey David?” he said.

“Yea?” he said, sticking his head around the curtain blocking off the stockroom.

“Um, before tonight, I have something to tell you.”

David walked back into the main part of the store, carrying a stack of flattened boxes. “If you’re worried about size, I just want you to know that it really doesn’t make a difference,” he said, quirking his mouth into a smirk. 

“No, it’s not about that,” Patrick said, speaking to the floor.

David clearly heard the seriousness in his voice because when he spoke next, he sounded unsure. “Patrick? What is it?”

Patrick took another deep breath. Still talking to the floor, he said, “I don’t want to talk about it fully right now, but I figured that I should warn you that I used to—well I still do, but I’m trying to stop—I have a lot of scars on my legs. And some are...are still new. Because I’ve been cutting myself since I was 15. I just...just thought you should know. So you’re not surprised.”

Patrick kept his eyes trained on the ground for a couple of seconds, but slowly he looked up at David. Instead of the disgust or revulsion that Patrick feared, David’s eyes were full of understanding. He gave Patrick a small smile before dropping the boxes on the center table and coming around to gently take the broom out of Patrick’s hands. After placing it against the wall he rested his hands on Patrick’s shoulders, rubbing little circles into them with his thumbs.

David leaned his forehead against Patrick’s. “Thank you for telling me that,” he breathed. “It takes a lot of courage to tell someone.” He kissed Patrick’s forehead. “I’ll be here for you—” he kissed Patrick’s left cheek, “—if you ever want to talk.” He kissed Patrick’s right cheek. “And for what it’s worth—” he pressed his lips briefly against Patrick’s, “—just because I don’t have scars doesn’t mean I wasn’t also hurting myself for years.”

David leaned his forehead against Patrick’s again. Patrick closed his eyes, breathing in the woodsy scent of the incredible man who literally walked into his life and saved him when he hadn’t even realized he was drowning. He kissed David softly, trying to convey just how grateful he was that David was still there, that he understood Patrick’s need to tell him without talking about it. 

The kiss grew more heated until David finally broke it. “We should finish up so we can get going,” he said. “Don’t want to spoil the fun for later.”

* * *

That night, after slowly taking off Patrick’s underwear, David ran his eyes appreciatively up and down Patrick’s body. Patrick watched David register the scars covering his thighs and saw sadness flash across his face. But less than a second later, the hunger came back in David’s eyes, and they lost themselves in each other.

* * *

Forcing himself to walk away from David’s room after that barbeque was one of the hardest things Patrick had ever done. He didn’t trust himself to drive, so he walked numbly towards Ray’s. With each step away from the motel, he felt his heartbreak a little bit more, pieces of it crumbling away and falling to the ground for David to follow back to him. 

When he got back to the house, he was grateful to see that Ray’s car was not in the driveway. He went upstairs into his room, got his box of tools from the suitcase he kept it in, and hurt himself again and again and again. He didn’t care that tears were dripping onto his leg. He could barely feel the sting of the salt in his wounds.

* * *

A week later, David lay curled around Patrick’s body. He shifted so that his leg was draped over Patrick’s thighs, and Patrick gasped in pain as delicately healed cuts opened again. Patrick made to sit up, but David gently pushed his shoulders back down onto the mattress. David shifted so that he was kneeling next to Patrick’s hip, and he looked at Patrick with a question in his eyes, hands hovering over the waistband of his pants. Patrick nodded his consent, and David carefully undid his pants and slid them down to around Patrick’s knees. He lifted the hem of Patrick’s boxers, looking at the new cuts crisscrossing his thighs. David grabbed tissues from the bedside table, dabbing at the newly opened cuts. David left the room briefly, returning with the first-aid kit Ray kept in the bathroom. Gingerly he washed the cuts, applied antibiotic cream, and covered them with sheets of gauze. Patrick followed his movements with his eyes, trying hard to not let the tears forming fall. That David was so kind, and gentle, and loving—that he was even _there,_ after a week apart that lasted for an eternity—overwhelmed him as he tended to the pain etched into his skin, tended to Patrick’s physical pain while still suffering from his own emotional pain.

David cleaned everything off the bed, and wrapped himself around Patrick once again, being careful to not disturb what he had just patched up.

* * *

It took David walking in on him one day for Patrick to finally be ready to talk to him.

As soon as Patrick got the keys to his new apartment, he gave David the second set. He loved the idea that his boyfriend would be able to come over whenever he wanted, would be able to let himself in, and enjoy the space even if Patrick wasn’t there. He loved the small collection of sweaters that David kept in the shelving unit on top of the dresser. He loved the skincare products lined up in the order in which they were used in his medicine cabinet. He loved David, and he loved sharing the space with him.

Looking back on it later, Patrick couldn’t remember what had set him off that day. Maybe he was dwelling on his overreaction to Ted kissing David at the housewarming party. Maybe he’d gotten annoyed at David over something trivial and was blaming himself for how he reacted. Maybe he was thinking about the fact that his parents had no idea just how important David was to him. Not that it ultimately mattered very much; he would always be able to find a reason to hurt himself.

Patrick sat on his bathroom floor, legs laid out in front of him, fingers numbly clutching the disposable razor blade. He watched the blood beading on his skin, the small clumps of red the only thing he was capable of focusing on. It felt as though his ears were stuffed with cotton.

Dimly, he became aware that someone was calling his name. There was a knock on the bathroom door, but still, he did not move.

“Patrick? Are you in there?” came David’s frantic voice. More knocking. “Patrick?!”

The door swung open and there was David, sweeping his panicked eyes around the bathroom before seeing Patrick in a heap on the floor. 

He kneeled beside him, and Patrick lifted his eyes to meet David’s with difficulty. Patrick saw the worry and fear and concern in his boyfriend’s eyes. David’s face became blurry as tears rolled down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick choked out. “I’m—I—I’m—”

“No, no no, honey. Come here—I’ve got you,” David said, holding out his hand for the razor blade and gently placing it in the trash. He gathered Patrick up in his arms, hugging him into his chest and rocking him back and forth, just like his father had done all those years ago.

* * *

The next day at the store passed in relative normalcy, but Patrick could tell that David was worried about him. Every time they caught each other’s eyes across the room, Patrick saw the concern in David’s gaze, and he couldn’t miss the small crease between his eyebrows. Even when they weren’t looking at each other, Patrick could feel David’s eyes on him. 

Patrick knew he owed David an explanation of the previous night, as well as the 17 years of suffering that preceded it. If he didn’t say anything, he knew that David would continue to worry about him and would probably worry that it was something he, David, had done to push Patrick over the edge in that instance. Patrick could not let David beat himself up about a hypothetical borne of his own anxiety; he could not let David suffer over the cause of Patrick’s suffering. 

_Besides,_ Patrick reasoned, _we’ve been together for nearly 9 months. It’s time I talk to him._

Patrick saw David rearranging a display of goat’s milk soap at the front of the store. He walked around the counter and very gently wrapped his arms around his boyfriend’s waist from behind. He nuzzled his nose against the short hairs at the base of David’s neck, pressing a quick kiss behind his ear, and hooking his chin over David’s shoulder. 

David turned his head to the side and pressed a quick kiss to Patrick’s temple. “Hey there,” he said, placing his hands over Patrick’s where they rested on his stomach. 

“Hey there yourself,” Patrick said, kissing David’s shoulder. He took a deep breath and said, “I’m ready to talk.”

David turned so that they were facing each other, wrapping his arms around Patrick’s shoulders while Patrick’s stayed on David’s waist. David searched Patrick’s face for a few seconds before he said, “Are you sure?”

Patrick nodded. “I’m sure.” 

David kissed Patrick softly. “Tonight?”

“Tonight.”

* * *

David and Patrick lay in Patrick’s bed, a tangled mess of sweaty limbs. Patrick knew that they should clean up and put on some clothes, but he felt too comfortable and safe to care right at that moment. David rested his head on Patrick’s chest, tracing idle swirls over his hip. Patrick closed his eyes, relishing the small act of intimacy. He felt David’s fingers move lower, ghosting over his thighs, lightly tracing over the patterns his scars made.

“We should probably get dressed,” David said, his breath tickling Patrick’s chest.

“Yea, we should,” Patrick said. “But I think you need to move first if we’re gonna do that.”

“Ugh, fine,” David said, rolling over onto his side and sitting up. He threw Patrick a towel. “Your chest is all sweaty.” 

“Hm, it’s almost like someone was just leaning on it or something.”

David chuckled and stood up. He pulled on a pair of boxers and a t-shirt, then slipped off the bed and padded across the apartment to the bathroom. Patrick watched him until he closed the door then sighed, wiping off his chest and standing up to pull on his own boxers and t-shirt. He sat up in bed and grabbed his phone from the bedside table, idly scrolling through Twitter until he heard the bathroom door open again.

David walked across the apartment and sat up on his side of the bed, resting his hand between Patrick’s shoulder blades. The silence between them was heavy with anticipation, and Patrick knew that David was waiting for him to start the conversation. He put his phone aside.

Looking straight ahead, Patrick spoke. “David, I want you to know before we really begin that nothing you have ever said to me or done to me has ever led to me hurting myself. If I ever have an issue with something that happened between us, I would talk to you first. I wouldn’t hide it from you.”

He glanced over at David and saw his eyes fixed on his knees and that he had his lips sucked between his teeth. He watched as some of the anxiety melted out of his shoulders as he let out a slow breath. 

“Thank you, Patrick,” David said, looking into Patrick’s eyes. David’s eyes were glistening in the lamplight. “I’ve been so worried all day that I said something yesterday to set you off, that I was being too demanding or too much to handle. And every time I’d see that you had new cuts I wondered if it was something I did to make you do it and that you were starting to get tired of me—” he took a deep breath, “—but I know that not everything is about me and that you probably had your reasons, but it always made me so sad to see that you’re struggling so much and I wanted to help you but I also wanted to respect that you weren’t ready to talk about it...but I still worried that it was something I did.” 

Patrick brought his hands to David’s cheeks and gently wiped away his tears. “I promise you, David. It was never you. And I could tell that you were worried...I just wasn’t ready to confront it,” Patrick said.

“Well I’m here for you, okay?” David said. He spread his legs and opened his arms, inviting Patrick in. Patrick crawled over and settled against David, leaning his head against his chest so that he could hear David’s heartbeat. David wrapped both arms around Patrick’s chest, holding him close. “Where do you want to start?”

“At the beginning, I suppose,” Patrick said. “I started doing it in high school when I was either 14 or 15. I honestly can’t remember much about why I did it that first time—what happened or why hurting myself was the way I chose to process it—but I know that it soothed me. And that it cleared my head. So whenever I felt like people were pressuring me to be a certain way, to act a certain way, that’s what I turned to.

“The cuts started relatively small—I don’t even have scars from them—but they were on my wrist and hand so my mom started to notice. She wondered what I was doing at school that I kept consistently getting scrapes, and I lied about it. I knew that what I was doing wasn’t particularly healthy, but I thought I had a handle on it, that I could stop. And I did stop, for a couple of weeks. But it felt like there was this constant buzzing in my head, or it felt like my body existed in one place and I existed in another, and I realized that cutting was what made that stop and grounded me, reminded me that I was alive. So I started doing it again but making sure I was doing it in a place that was pretty much always covered.

“I can’t remember most of my sophomore year of high school. I’m pretty sure I spent a lot of that year dissociating if I’m being honest. But I must have put up a really good front because no one noticed that anything was wrong. 

“As time went on, it just felt like nothing was really in my control anymore. There was this unspoken path that I was expected to follow—go to a good school, get a well-paying 9-5 job, marry my high school sweetheart, buy a house, have kids—but I didn’t know what it was I _actually_ wanted well enough to know I didn’t want to follow it. But hurting myself, _that_ made me feel like I had control. I knew I needed help but I was just...so scared.”

Patrick paused, needing to clear this throat after going dry from all his talking. He realized that the spot on David’s t-shirt where he was resting was wet, even though he hadn’t noticed that he was crying.

“Asking for help as an adult can be scary enough. I can’t imagine asking for help as a teenager,” David said, pressing his cheek to the top of Patrick’s head. “Did you ever tell your parents?” he asked. 

Patrick felt a twinge of guilt that David brought up his parents, but he pushed it down—now was not the time. “Yea,” he said. “I kinda had to. I wasn’t fantastic at keeping my cuts clean since I used to like to pick at them, and one of them got pretty infected.” He raised the hem of his boxers and traced a finger over the scar that was much wider and more raised than the others. “It was this one. It hurt to walk at one point, and I knew that if I didn’t get it treated it would become a huge problem. I was 17, so my parents would’ve had to get involved anyway, so I told my mom. I don’t remember much from that night except for being scared that my parents would be angry or disappointed and that they’d force me to go to the hospital. They were really good about it though. They wouldn’t let me be alone in the house for about a month, and they forced me to go to therapy, but in general, they gave me space.”

“What do you mean by forced to go to therapy?”

“It was the early aughts. Going to therapy was not seen as a very positive thing, especially if you were in high school,” Patrick said. 

David nodded. “Yep. If people found out you went to therapy they thought it was because you were ‘crazy.’” 

Patrick nodded too. “Exactly. And I can’t truthfully say that I didn’t think the same thing. I honestly hated it. I was ashamed of why I was there. I didn’t tell any of my friends, saying instead that I had physical therapy for a sports injury every week. Clearly, it worked on some level though, because I stopped hurting myself for about three years after I told my parents.”

David wrapped his arms more tightly around Patrick. “What made you start again?” he asked.

“I’m not sure it was one specific thing. In the summer between sophomore and junior years of college, Rachel and I got together when we were both home and then I broke up with her right before we both went back to school. Something between us just didn’t feel right and I thought that maybe it was because Rachel and I knew too much about each other or we had too much history. So when I went back to school I tried to date some other girls, but that didn’t feel right to me either. I figured maybe I just wasn’t into dating so I tried hooking up with girls. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me that nothing was working. I felt...little lost. Of course,” Patrick said, twisting his neck to look at David in the eye, “I know now what it was. I didn’t have you.”

“You know what I’ve said about saying stuff like that to me,” David said, trying hard to keep the smile off his face. Patrick leaned up and kissed him, marveling at just how _right_ it felt to kiss David. David broke the kiss, saying, “We don’t want to get distracted.”

Patrick settled down again against David’s torso. “You’re right. As always.” He lifted his lips in a tiny smile. “Uhm...oh, right. I felt lost, and that feeling of not existing in my own skin was coming back, and I knew that hurting myself was the only way I could get that feeling to stop. I thought I would be able to do it just once, that I could stop again, but I couldn’t. Not for long anyway. Once I started doing it regularly again, I took myself to the counseling center. They asked me every week if I was suicidal, and I kept telling them, no, and eventually, I just got annoyed about it and canceled my appointments, saying I would seek outside help. I didn’t though. I haven’t seen a therapist since. And I’ve been hurting myself on and off since.”

Patrick fell silent, leaning into David for security and warmth. He could hear David’s heartbeat where his ear was pressed against his chest, and its presence grounded him in a way very few other things had. He would be content to sit for hours listening to the beat of David’s heart, and would gladly let his life march along to its tempo. 

“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?” David asked. 

“Nope. Go ahead.” 

“What sort of things make you want to hurt yourself?”

“Honestly...sometimes it’s hard to pin down. Sometimes if I’m feeling guilty about something? Like after the housewarming, I felt guilty about my overreaction. I knew it really didn’t matter but I still felt guilty. I’m not entirely sure what last night was about. The truth is, I can always find a reason to justify it. But I’ve been doing it less often recently. Before, I just felt so trapped, and I didn’t understand why my relationship kept failing, and I felt so bogged down by expectation, and I felt like my life was going nowhere. In the months before I moved here, I was harming myself multiple times a day, I was having panic attacks frequently, and on some of the worst days, I was truly suicidal. I considered taking myself to the hospital a couple of times, but I could never really justify it to myself. I was in a really dark place, David. And I don’t ever want to go back there,” Patrick said, choking on the last few words. He was crying, hard, thinking through and finally admitting just how much pain he’d been in. He was also crying because he couldn’t imagine not making it to where he was, being embraced by the man he loved, by the man who loved him back. He drew his knees up into his chest and leaned his head against them, curling in on himself. Patrick could feel David draping himself across his back and fully wrapping his arms around him, crossing his legs so that Patrick’s legs were included in the embrace.

“I’ve got you, Patrick,” David whispered. “It’s going to be okay. I’m here.”

Patrick wasn’t sure how long he cried, but by the time he finished his eyes felt puffy and his throat felt dry. David went to the bathroom and emerged with a damp washcloth, then walked into the kitchenette and poured Patrick a glass of water. David rejoined Patrick on the bed, handing him the glass of water and gently wiping his face to get rid of the tears. “There you go,” David said quietly. 

“Thank you, David,” Patrick said, blowing his nose into a tissue David held out to him. “For listening, and taking care of me, and just...being here.”

“Of course, Patrick.” David laid down on his side and lifted his left arm. Patrick nestled against his body, glad to be the little spoon in this instance.

“Can I ask you one more question tonight?” David said. 

“Yea.”

“Would you be willing to try therapy again?”

Patrick laced his fingers through David’s and brought his knuckles to his lips. “I would try it again, David. For you.”

David gave a small chuckle. “As gallant and as sweet as that sentiment is, you should want to do therapy for you, Patrick. So can I ask another question?” 

“Since you asked so nicely, I don’t see why not.”

“Would you want to try therapy again, _for you?_ ”

“You know what, David?” Patrick said, bringing his knuckles to his lips once again. “I think I would.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really heavy, ngl. I mostly wrote this as a way to work through some of my experiences with telling my parents about my struggles with self-harm in hs and how I felt after starting again a couple years after that. don't worry though, it's been at least 4 yrs since I last did it, and I have no intention of doing it again. 
> 
> if you are struggling with your mental health, don't be afraid to reach out to people who care. asking for help can be scary but you can do it <3
> 
> I'm on [ tumblr](https://elifisher96.tumblr.com/)


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